I've Never Heard Him 'Oooh' And 'Aaah'
by TheIronPrice
Summary: In which Courfeyrac ships E/R and no one knows what Enjolras was doing out late with Grantaire. Also, Combeferre tries to be a good friend. Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

Feuilly had barely just returned to his dorm room from a meeting with his friends and was planning to spend the next half hour or so reading through his book of Polish phrases when his phone vibrated and he saw that Courfeyrac had invited him into a group chat. Courfeyrac, as per usual, was the one to commence the conversation.

_Well, Grantaire was certainly talkative tonight._

Combeferre was the first to respond, _Enjolras looked about ready to strangle him._

Before Feuilly could comment on the events of the night's meeting, Courfeyrac was quick to parry Combeferre's response.

_Oh, he looked about ready to do something to him. ;)_

_Give it a rest, Courfeyrac_, Feuilly jumped into the fray. _Even if Enjolras did come down from his moral high ground long enough to find himself a mere mortal to satisfy him, Grantaire would be the last person he'd consider._

_I think it'd be very romantic if he did, _Jehan chimed in.

_Write a poem about it then. The day Grantaire gets Enjolras into bed with him is the day I win the lottery, _Bossuet added his two cents to the conversation.

_You're all idiots,_ Bahorel said and left.

_Sorry, Jehan, but I have to agree with Bossuet on this one, _Joly had finally decided to take part in the debate taking place.

_And we're all so surprised to know it, _Courfeyrac added, his sarcasm evident even in the context of a text message. _Look, I don't care what you guys think. Enjolras and Grantaire are meant to be and if they need a little shove in the right direction, well call me Cupid._

_Courfeyrac, I beg you in the name of all that is good in this world, please do not play matchmaker, at least not with Enjolras and Grantaire, _Combeferre pleaded on behalf of his poor, unsuspecting friends but Courfeyrac had already left the group chat.

Flopping unceremoniously onto his bed, Feuilly sent one final text before turning off his phone and falling asleep:

_We're all screwed._

Eventually the others all dropped out of the conversation too, in complete agreement that not a word of what was said in this group chat should be so much as whispered to either Enjolras or Grantaire. All except Combeferre, apparently the only one of his friends with a conscience. Usually Combeferre wouldn't bother waiting up for his one-track-minded roommate but tonight was different. Combeferre looked at the digital clock on his nightstand. It read 11:55 p.m.

_I swear to God, if Courfeyrac gets to him before I do…_Combeferre's train of thought wandered off into the distance as it was accustomed to do after a sixteen hour day of hard work and studious habits. Suddenly, the muffled sound of footsteps and voices became more distinct as they advanced closer and closer to the door to Enjolras and Combeferre's dorm. Identifying one of the two voices as that of his roommate, Combeferre quickly picked up the nearest book, Rousseau's Emile, in order to appear to be reading when Enjolras walked in to find him still awake. Enjolras, however, did not walk in immediately but paused outside the door to continue talking to the other voice. After listening for a few moments, Combeferre recognized the other voice as that of their circle's resident drunk artist, Grantaire, and despite his better judgement, Combeferre continued to listen to what was being said.

"So, same time next week?" Enjolras asked.

"If you can still stand me." Grantaire answered, the slight hint of a joke in his voice.

"Funny," Enjolras said, his choice of wording contrasting starkly with his all too serious tone, "I was just about to say the same to you."

"Believe it or not, your unbelievable obliviousness doesn't bother me in the slightest." Grantaire replied sarcastic but good-intentioned. Enjolras sighed.

"Good night, Grantaire."

"Wait." There was a sound of a hand brushing up against clothing; Combeferre guessed that Grantaire had grabbed Enjolras by the arm. "I'd always make time for you.

"Thank you."

"G'night."

"Good night." Enjolras said one more time as the sound of Grantaire's footsteps faded down the hall. Combeferre had expected the door knob to be turned as soon as the last farewells had been spoken but Enjolras lingered in the hallway for at least another minute before he opened the door. He looked shocked to see Combeferre still up and reading his personally annotated copy of Emile.

"I didn't expect to find you still awake," Enjolras said, sounding as if he were congratulating his friend on his ability to resist the luxury of sleep. "And reading Rousseau at that. Wouldn't you be better off reading about the proper way to dissect a cadaver?"

"You know better than anyone that I haven't lost my interest in societal issues, no matter my chosen field of study." Combeferre smiled faintly. _If he wants to tell me what happened, he will. If he doesn't, there's no use pushing the matter._

Enjolras smiled but even his smile remained serious. "You remain as constant as ever, my friend. Constant as ever."

Combeferre thought he detected a trace of guilt in those icy blue eyes but it was gone in flash, leaving Combeferre to attribute it to nothing more than a trick of the light.

Soon, Enjolras left for the bathroom at the end of the hall on their floor and Combeferre took this opportunity to text Courfeyrac.

_What the hell did you do?_ Combeferre demanded.

_Did?_ Courfeyrac asked. _If you're referring to Operation You Can't Spell Revolution Without L, O, V, E, I'll have you know that none of it has been put into action yet…Jesus, I'm not known for my speed, am I? ;)_

Wisely choosing not to respond to this, Combeferre put his phone down as Enjolras came back in, wearing only a T-shirt and boxers.

"Aren't you going to change?" He asked.

"No, I have an early class tomorrow." Combeferre said. Enjolras nodded, slinking lithely into his bed, parallel to Combeferre's identical twin one. Combeferre laid back on his bed just as Enjolras turned off the lamp on the nightstand that separated their beds. Looking up at the ceiling through the darkness, Combeferre itched to ask just one question about what Enjolras had been doing out with Grantaire. Nothing personal, nothing intimate, just a "So, you don't hate him after all then?" would sufficiently quench Combeferre's curiosity.

Thinking his roommate to be asleep, the light of Enjolras' phone and Enjolras picking it up almost instantaneously forced Combeferre to immediately feign sleep but through slitted eyes, he saw Enjolras curl up around his phone and smile at the exchange taking place. And it wasn't the serious smile he had given Combeferre earlier but a delighted little smile that almost broke Combeferre's heart because he knew no one else waking would ever see that smile. Except…

_Perhaps, I should tell Bossuet to buy his lottery tickets. I sense our unlucky friend shall soon find himself laden with good fortune._

And by the light of Enjolras' phone, Combeferre drifted off to sleep.

(AN: Thinking of writing more. Tell me what you think!)


	2. Chapter 2

As promised, Combeferre rose early the next morning, finding Enjolras face down, snoring lightly into his pillow. Looking at his alarm clock, he also found that he had just enough time to grab a quick breakfast-to-go from the cafe down the street they frequented before his first class.

Mercilessly shoving off the covers, Combeferre sat on the edge of his bed taking a minute to accustom himself to the new day. Yawning, he observed the peaceful sleep of Enjolras, not without a little envy. It appeared Enjolras had long ago abandoned his phone-centric position; his phone was now on the floor beside his bed, probably flipped accidentally off the side as Enjolras dreamt of social justice.

Still groggy with sleep, Combeferre pushed himself off his bed and made to retrieve his book bag from the table which he and Enjolras had divided in half for the purpose of serving both of them. On one side of the painted red line lay Combeferre's assorted textbooks, typical of a pre-med major, and an array of his own self-drawn diagrams which depicted everything from human body systems to the exoskeletons of insects. On the other side of the red line resided mountains of Enjolras' radical pamphlets written by various authors, among them Enjolras himself. They were piled haphazardly atop a political science textbook and innumerable books on French history. Nothing, however, was within an inch of the red line except the inscribed words, "The Liberty of the citizen ends where the Liberty of another begins."

Combeferre smiled as he remembered the whole arrangement being one of the first things Enjolras had said to him when they'd first become roommates. Then, he thought of the quote in terms of the events of the previous night and looked back at the phone so easily within his grasp.

_It's his phone, _Combeferre thought as he slung his book bag over his shoulder. _He's entitled to his privacy_.

He put a pair of shoes on but even as he leaned down to tie them, his eyes remained glued to the phone in the middle of the floor.

_Remember the quote, _Combeferre told himself. _Remember your morals, damn it! For God's sake, even Courfeyrac knows better than that!_

But even this argument, though usually enough to deter him from doing anything no matter how much he wanted to do it, could not stop him from edging closer and closer to Enjolras' phone. And finally, against his better judgement, he knelt beside the phone and pushed the home button. Immediately, he saw that a message had gone unanswered from 2 a.m. It was from Grantaire. Disgusted with his own deviousness, Combeferre opened the conversation, seeing that it had in fact gone on for almost two hours. He only dared so far as to read Grantaire's last message. It read:

_When does the sun god sleep, if he spends the night fraternizing with mortals?_

"Good morning." Combeferre nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Enjolras' drowsy voice. He looked up and saw Enjolras' azure eyes stare back at him, flit momentarily downward in the direction of the phone, and then back to hold Combeferre's gaze.

"Good morning." Combeferre tried his best not to stutter despite the rapid rhythm his heart was tapping out. "I was just checking to see if Joly had texted you his plans for the day. I want to meet up with him if I can."

"Well?"

"Nothing. But I'll text him on my way to class to try to find out."

"Ok."

Combeferre quickly got back to his feet and as he reached the threshold, he called back to Enjolras, "Sorry if I woke you up!"

"Combeferre." Enjolras' steadily calm tone froze Combeferre in his tracks.

"Yes?"

"Remember: The good must be innocent."

Remaining on the threshold, Combeferre replied, indignant at his own words being thrown in his face, "I'd advise you to do the same."

He could feel Enjolras' cold stare boring into his back as he walked into the hall and closed the door but he had to go. If he stayed in there one more minute, he would tell Enjolras everything and he knew this wasn't the right time to do that. Not just yet.

Walking down the hall and then two flights of stairs and eventually the street, Combeferre wondered how his relationship with his best friend had gone so downhill in a matter of hours for a man who neither had expressed a particular liking for.

_A friendship divided cannot survive,_ he thought.

Once inside the cafe that was his goal, Combeferre greeted Feuilly who stood behind the counter, his face lighting up at the sight of his friend.

"_Dzien dobry_, Combeferre!" He exclaimed. Combeferre laughed.

"The same to you, Feuilly."

"So," Feuilly set off to get Combeferre his usual order of a decaf French vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin, "has dear Apollo been struck by an arrow yet?"

"Considering he's supposed to be the god of archery, I should hope not," Combeferre replied, a thin layer of ice coating his words. Feuilly shook his head.

"I can tell you Grantaire was practically ecstatic when he finally stumbled back to our room last night," Feuilly remarked, handing Combeferre his food. "He wouldn't turn off his damn phone for the world."

"I didn't think Enjolras would either except he fell asleep," Combeferre answered. Feuilly chuckled.

"You should tell Grantaire that yourself." Combeferre had no such intention. "I tried telling him when Enjolras stopped replying that even gods as well as poor students who have to get up and work at seven a.m. need to sleep." Feuilly stopped then added wistfully, "I _had_ been asleep."

"Did he really keep you up until two a.m.?" Combeferre asked, pityingly. Feuilly barely got enough sleep as it was; his inebriate roommate's nocturnal habits were no help. Feuilly nodded sadly.

"Just when I had mastered the art of sleeping through his post-binge antics, too. Do I have Courfeyrac to thank for that?" Feuilly asked.

"No, I'm afraid he's innocent in this whole business for now," Combeferre said. "We'll be seeing you tonight, right?"

"To continue the liberation of the oppressed?" Feuilly pretended to ponder the notion. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Are you sure about that?" Combeferre asked. Feuilly smirked.

"Maybe with the exception of Poland."

"That's more like it." Combeferre smiled. "Later."

"Later!"

As Combeferre opened the door to leave, he found his way blocked by two familiar faces.

"Courfeyrac! Grantaire!" Combeferre greeted them, not without a little surprise. "Allow me to welcome you to the world of those of us who get up before noon."

"Please don't," Courfeyrac grimaced. "It's a rather grim place, especially if you haven't yet slept."

"You too?" Combeferre asked, carefully glancing at Grantaire. "Did anyone sleep last night?"

"Did Enjolras?" Grantaire asked, his eyes desperate. Combeferre, pitying him, nodded.

"Yes, eventually Enjolras did fall asleep." Grantaire's sigh was barely visible, much less audible, except to Combeferre who had been anticipating a reaction of some sort. Courfeyrac, however, quicker than lightning, pulled out his wallet and fished out a ten.

"Grantaire, be a doll and grab me an iced coffee and get whatever you like for yourself," he said. Grantaire took the dollar bill, briefly pondered his options while looking back and forth between Courfeyrac and Combeferre and finally, less walked and more swung his body through the door of the cafe.

"Alright, Courfeyrac," Combeferre said, gently in an effort not to come off as angry or frustrated, "tell me, what's going on?" Courfeyrac opened his mouth wordlessly and shook his head. He was as clueless as Combeferre. "You have no idea either, do you?"

"I texted him last night to see what he was up to and he said he was on his way back to his room and that he had an important project to finish and wouldn't be able to talk with me for the rest of the night..." Courfeyrac paused. "Please tell me that by 'project', he meant 'Enjolras'."

"Sorry to disappoint." Combeferre replied flatly. The truth was, even he couldn't be sure.

"Where's your sense of romance, Combeferre?"

"It's 7:30 in the morning, Courfeyrac. Nothing is romantic." Combeferre responded in the same flat tone. Courfeyrac shook his head and looked down the street as if proof of early morning romance could be found there.

"Look who it is." Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. Before Combeferre could look, he heard the voice of Enjolras call out "Hey!" and for a moment, Combeferre was paralyzed.

Disregarding any sort of overtures, Enjolras immediately asked Courfeyrac, "You'll be here at seven o'clock sharp tonight, right?"

"Not a minute later." Courfeyrac smiled at Enjolras' frankness.

"Good." Enjolras turned to Combeferre with only slight coldness. "You too?"

"Of course."

"Excellent. I'll see you both later then." Enjolras turned on his heel and walked into the cafe where Grantaire was trying to convince Feuilly that a few drops form his flask would increase the quality of Courfeyrac's coffee. Combeferre had been about to tell Enjolras to wait but Courfeyrac grabbed his by the wrist, spun him around, and made him look through the transparent door of the cafe.

"Look," Courfeyrac ordered, "what do you see?"

As Grantaire saw Enjolras approaching, he immediately shoved his flask back into the pocket of his coat but Enjolras still looked disapprovingly at him. They began to talk and Combeferre didn't need to hear them to know they were talking about last night. Grantaire put his hands in his pockets, leaned forward, and probably insinuated something because Enjolras glared at him. But Grantaire straightened up and continued to talk as he was wont to do and Enjolras appeared to genuinely be listening. Combeferre continued to watch their exchange for a minutes longer. He noticed they stood closer together than usual and eye contact was never broken between them. In the midst of the drunkard's stupor, his god came to him, closer than ever.

_Can it be?_ Combeferre thought. Quickly, he glanced at Courfeyrac.

"Don't try to blame me for this. I didn't do a thing."

And looking back into the cafe where he and his friends had spoke of revolution so many times, Combeferre saw that there was in fact a revolution taking place.

(A/N: Well, is it worth continuing?)


	3. Chapter 3

"Bossuet?"

"No, Joly, your tongue looks the same as it did yesterday."

"You didn't even look!"

"I stopped looking years ago."

"But what if I'm actually dying this time? I hope you're prepared to explain to everyone why my tombstone says 'I told you so'!"

"Anyone who knew you will understand." Rather nonchalantly, Bossuet flipped the page of his book and continued reading while Joly smiled and flipped him off.

They were in the univeristy library and while Bossuet was reading up on a case, Joly was trying to do his med homework but Bossuet saw the phone under the table, perpetually opening and reopening to diagnosispro . com. From their table, they had the perfect view of the entire library. They were located at the center, where all the aisles began and rejoined again, with a direct view of the front door. It was ideal in everyway.

"Guys! GUYS!" Jehan bounded up the aisle to their immediate right, causing Bossuet to drop his book and Joly to drop his phone under the table. "Guess who I saw in the poetry section!"

His voice had dropped down to a dramatic whisper. Joly had ducked under the table to retrieve his phone.

"Lord Byron?" Bossuet asked, feigning excitement. Jehan's face fell.

"Do you really think I'd be here talking to you people if Lord Byron was within ten feet of my person?"

"Fair point, go on."

Jehan's excitement returned to him as he grinned and exclaimed, "Enjolras in the flesh!"

"No!" Bossuet gasped but beamed all the same. At the same time, they heard the muffled sound of Joly hitting his head on the bottom of the table. Coming out from under the table and sitting down again, Joly asked with incredulity:

"What?!"

"Has it been done?" Bossuet asked. "Has someone finally written an epic poem about Robespierre?"

"No. Wordsworth did have a notable fascination with the French Revolution but that's beside the point." Jehan dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand and pulled up a chair beside his friends. "So, I was just browsing to see if anything new had been added to the poetry section. Absolutely nothing if you wanted to know."

He said it sharply, as if he were personally offended, which he probably was. "And I saw him holding a book of Shakespeare sonnets so close to his face you would think he was trying to inhale the words off the page."

"He does like to be well read," Joly offered.

"Yes, but in love poetry?" Jehan sounded skeptical. "Believe me, I have tried and failed him in that area time and time again."

"You don't suppose he's finally decided to cultivate his heart, do you?" Bossuet smirked with firm disbelief.

"Perhaps some has already begun cultivating it for him," Jehan suggested. His voice had grown soft and was marked by a reverential tone, which was wont to occur when he spoke of matters of the heart.

"Wait, Prouvaire, before we break the bad news to Patria, which sonnet was he reading?" Joly raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Jehan pursed his lips.

"I couldn't tell. A piece of paper fell out of the book and as he leaned down to pick it up, I, well..." Jehan blushed. "I was afraid he would see me and think I was spying. After what happened between him and Combeferre this morning, I really don't think getting on his bad side is such a good idea."

"Good call," said Bossuet.

"Too bad," Joly countered. "If we had known which sonnet he was reading and where that piece of paper was placed, we might've had a better understanding of what the hell is going on here."

Then, out of the blue, _The Sonnets of William Shakespeare_ landed in front of Joly as if from above.

"Sonnet Twenty," Enjolras stated bluntly and walked out the front door. It slammed hard. After a few moments of sitting in stunned silence, Bossuet wondered aloud:

"Well, that answers one question. The next one is, which country do we flee to?"

"Oh, Japan! Highest average elderly age and lowest cases of heart disease." Joly perked up. Jehan rolled his eyes fondly and opened the book to Sonnet Twenty. Immediately, a small, square piece of folded paper fell out from between the pages. Jehan snatched it up before the other two could make a grab for it and then, returned his attention to the sonnet at hand.

"Yes, I remember this one well." He ran his slender fingers delicately over the words as if he were caressing them and recited without the slightest hesitation or thought, "A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; a woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted  
with shifting change, as is false women's fashion-"

"Yes, yes, beautiful, we can appreciate the Bard later. Now, what does that piece of paper say?" Bossuet insisted impatiently. Jehan, looking only mildly disgruntled as he was just as curious, placed the book down, open on the table. He unfolded the paper, read its contents to himself, sighed in obvious disappointment and passed it on to Joly and Bossuet who read it together.

There were two different people's penmanship on the paper. The first had written, "RV?" The second had written, "TBD, TARFU".

"Excellent. It's in_ code," _said Bossuet. Joly snatched up his phone.

"I'm on it!" Sure enough, within a minute or so, Joly had brought up a list of common government and military acronyms as a place to start, if anything.

"Ok, so apparently 'RV?' means 'Rendezvous?' and we all know 'TBD' means 'To be determined' but let's see, 'TARFU'...hmmm..." Joly's eyes squinted as he continued his search. "Ahah! I've got it. It can mean either 'Things Are Really Fucked Up' or 'Totally and Royally Fucked Up'."

"And we're positive that the second person, the one who wrote 'TBD TARFU', is Enjolras?" Bossuet asked. Jehan nodded solemnly.

"I'm positive. I've been reading his handwritten work for years." Joly, Jehan, and Bossuet stared at each other in a silence similar to the first one, except this one, instead of being preceded by the slamming of a door, was terminated by the opening of one and in walked Grantaire. In his hand, he carried a brown paper bag that just barely concealed an object that looked suspiciously like a bottle. Seeing three of his good friends directly ahead of him, he swaggered right up to their table to greet them. Before he could see, Jehan stealthily slipped the piece of paper into his pant's pocket.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen! What brings you all here? Nothing of the academic persuasion, I hope." Jehan, Bossuet, and Joly all looked at each other, trying to figure out their cover story by telepathy. Before any of them could reply, Grantaire spotted the book of sonnets and snagged it out of Jehan's reach, flipping through all the pages and eventually stopping at the front cover. "I'd've thought you'd have all of these memorized by now, Prouvaire."

"I was just brushing up." Jehan was blushing.

"Well, if you wouldn't mind, I think I'd like to try my hand at the verses of the over-glorified Bard myself." Jehan made a gesture with his hands that told Grantaire he could go right ahead. "My deepest thanks, dear Prouvaire. I suppose I'll see you all later, listening and making sacrifices to the talking statue?"

"Don't be surprised if the green fairy's there too," Bossuet added. Grantaire feigned offense.

"Why would I be surprised?" A devilish grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I'm the one who invited her."

They all shared a laugh and on that note, Grantaire walked off the book and Joly, practically giving himself whiplash, said to Jehan, "Quick, Sonnet Twenty, recite it."

And Jehan did so perfectly:

"A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted  
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;  
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted  
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;  
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,  
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;  
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,  
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.  
And for a woman wert thou first created;  
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,  
And by addition me of thee defeated,  
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.  
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,  
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure."

"And you still have the paper?" Joly asked.

"Yes..." Jehan's voice trembled. Joly and Bossuet exchanged glances.

"We're fucked."

"Run!"

A/N: As usual, please tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

Just to the left of the cafe's door, Bahorel leaned back against the facade of the cafe, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, selected one, placed it between his lips, and after taking his lighter out of his pocket, lit up. He ignored the passerby who did not interest him and they avoided him either by instinct or knowledge of his reputation. He didn't care though. He knew from experience that he wouldn't be waiting long. Bahorel knew that Feuilly knew that a few wasted minutes could be what lost him a job or a meal, making him quite easily the most punctual of Les Amis. However, the one flaw in this plan was that Feuilly didn't know about it. Bahorel hadn't told him he'd be waiting for him, mostly because he knew Feuilly would protest 1848-style. So, Bahorel preferred to think of it as a little "surprise" for, in his opinion, his over-worked friend.

A total of about two minutes passed before Bahorel's patience, in the loosest sense of the word, failed him and he grabbed his phone in order to find out why he'd been forced to wait more than ten drags of his cigarette.

_Where the fuck are you?_ He texted, his thumbs practically leaving dents in the screen. Even waiting the next fifteen seconds for a reply had Bahorel muttering angrily, long winded curses spilling from his mouth as if it were his mother tongue.

_OK, first off, stop cursing under your breath. You've probably already terrified enough people in the vicinity as it is, _was Feuilly's initial reply.

Bahorel growled in the back of his throat. Feuilly continued.

_Good. Now, I'm on my way to the cafe to discuss the pros and cons of collective bargaining with Enjolras and Courfeyrac before the meeting officially starts tonight._

_Oooh, fun._ Bahorel taunted.

_Shut up._

_Listen, _Bahorel began, _Grantaire and I were going to grab some beers before the meeting. You want to tag along?_

Feuilly responded with a single word: _No._

_Let me rephrase that, _Bahorel wrote. _You're tagging along._

_My turn to rephrase…No._

_But Feuuuuuuuiilllllllllllyyyyyyyy._

_No, Bahorel, I am literally just turning the corner to the cafe now. Plus, I have no spare cash for alcohol today. Or ever really but especially today! So, no. See you later._

Bahorel smiled devilishly as he looked up and saw Feuilly rounding the corner, his eyes still on his phone.

"Three…two…" Bahorel said, under his breath. "…One."

Then, he set to savoring the look on Feuilly's face when he saw Bahorel, looking as sly as a cat, reclining casually on the wall outside the cafe.

"You son of a bitch, Bahorel!" Bahorel grinned and clamped his monstrous arm over Feuilly's bony shoulder, forcing him to walk alongside him.

"While this is true, now you have no choice but to come with me on my quest of alcoholic fulfillment." Bahorel continued to grin cheekily but Feuilly remained unamused.

"Do you realize, Bahorel, that as my salary stays constant, the cost of living continues to increase on a daily basis?"

"That's why I'm paying." Feuilly looked doubtful.

"Are you so sure about that?"

"Well, Grantaire has his own fucking tab there anyway!" Bahorel yelled. He'd expected to be, at the very least, buzzed five minutes ago. He jabbed his cigarette in Feuilly's direction as he said, "The point is, tonight's your lucky night, Feuilly. So stop bitching about it."

Unimpressed but deciding to go along with it, Feuilly plucked the cigarette out from between Bahorel's fingers and took a long drag, blowing the smoke into Bahorel's face. They continued walking down the street until the bar was in view.

"Go fuck yourself," Feuilly stated coolly. Bahorel appeared to be halfway between extremely entertained and extremely incensed, a feeling not new to him.

"You may be my friend but I have no problem making your death look like an accident."

"I'd like to see you try." And with that, Feuilly threw what remained of the cigarette at Bahorel's feet and, while he was distracted, made a mad dash for the bar just a few yards away. Running inside, he immediately scanned the room for any sign of his roommate and, judging by the mop of dark hair hovering over a half empty glass of a liquid green substance, found him slumped over at a table far in the back. Sprinting over to Grantaire, Feuilly quickly slid into the booth and beneath the table just as he heard the door swing open wildly.

"Feuilly?" Grantaire mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"Never mind." Feuilly smiled and tightened his crouching position and Bahorel's thunderous footsteps drew closer to the table. Soon, Bahorel's huge Timberlands came into sight and he heard Bahorel ask Grantaire:

"Would you happened to have seen a disgruntled ginger jackass run in here recently?"

"Not as of late, no," Grantaire answered, drily. Bahorel sat down in the booth on the bench across from Grantaire and Feuilly soon felt a swift kick delivered to his left shin.

"Asswipe," Feuilly grumbled as he came up to sit beside Bahorel.

"Asshat," Bahorel shot back. Grantaire stared at them, his eyes drooping and unfocused.

"Children, children," he drawled. "Please, control yourselves."

"Sorry," Feuilly apologized, not really sounding sorry at all. "But not all of us get to spend our nights in the sole company of the Incorruptible."

"What?!" Bahorel's voice must've shot up two octaves.

"Shut up, just shut up," Grantaire entreated, running his hand through his unruly hair, flakes of dry paint sprinkling the tabletop.

"Wait," Bahorel said, trying to get a grasp on the situation, "so did you guys-"

"No!" Grantaire asserted, finishing off his drink in a final swig and signaling to be brought another.

"But you guys are-"

"NO!"

When the next drink arrived, Grantaire chugged it down in three epic gulps and finally asked to just be brought the bottle.

"So what the hell happened?" Bahorel wondered, more than a little confused. Grantaire looked at him and stated frankly:

"Absolutely nothing."

"Do you think that you two might-"

"No." And like a man presented with a heroic feat, Grantaire set to imbibing the entire bottle of absinthe as if he were drinking from the Fountain of Youth itself.

By the time they decided it was time to head to the cafe, Grantaire was rambling like a man possessed and neither Feuilly nor Bahorel was any closer to figuring out what exactly it was that had happened between Enjolras and Grantaire the other night. At some point, they thought he was reciting Shakespeare though neither bore the Bard an excessive amount of love.

"A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created…" Grantaire paused as they walked towards the cafe and inquired rather loudly, "God damn it, do either of you know the rest of it?"

Feuilly and Bahorel shook their heads in unison and continued to prod Grantaire on his way.

"Ah well, something, something, blah, blah, blah," Grantaire continued to rant on, "But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure!…Lovely, isn't it?"

"Yes, Grantaire, pure poetry. Keep moving." Bahorel huffed, completely done with the drunkard's antics. Unfortunately, Grantaire was far from being done.

"What do you think it means though?" He blurted out.

"I think that, even though he was married to a woman, Shakespeare played for another team." Feuilly mused, proud of his own analysis.

"By George, Feuilly, I think you've got it!" Grantaire virtually bellowed. "Enjolras was right; you really are the salvation of the underdog!"

Feuilly chuckled softly as they reached the cafe. "Is that what you and Enjolras discussed? Poetry and myself?"

"Well, we…woah," Grantaire suddenly lost his balance and slouched against the cafe wall.

"Grantaire?"

But Grantaire didn't respond. Instead, he ducked into the alleyway next to the cafe from which Feuilly and Bahorel could hear the sounds of violent retching and incomplete oaths as Grantaire littered the street with the contents of his stomach. Feuilly ran inside, hoping to find Combeferre or Joly, but the first man he met was Enjolras who was instantly followed by Combeferre at the sight of Feuilly's urgent expression.

"It's Grantaire, he drank to much today; he's outside now." Feuilly informed them rapidly and together they returned to the alley, outside of which Bahorel stood guard and from within, Grantaire could still be heard coughing and moaning and vomiting. Enjolras, leader through and through, promptly began doling out orders.

"Combeferre, get me some kind of container or bag. Feuilly, get me a cab. Bahorel, help me with him." Everyone did what was asked of them without questions. Combeferre returned from within the cafe with a plastic black trash bag as Bahorel and Enjolras supported Grantaire's weight between them. After a two unsuccessful attempts, Feuilly triumphed in acquiring them a cab. Together, Enjolras and Bahorel helped a pale and sweating Grantaire into the back seat of the cab and Enjolras, taking the trash bag from Combeferre, told them:

"I will take him back to his room. Combeferre, I entrust the running of the meeting to you and I expect you all to take it as seriously as if I were there." The four of them nodded in agreement and Enjolras joined Grantaire in the back seat of the cab. They heard Grantaire retch once more as the cab drove away, Enjolras holding the trash bag up to his mouth for his use.

Combeferre, Feuilly and Bahorel stood on the sidewalk in silence until Courfeyrac and Jehan came out from inside the cafe, looking curious.

"Where'd Enjolras go?" Courfeyrac asked and after getting a whiff of the contents of the alley, "And why does it smell like Saint Patrick's Day came early this year?"

With absolutely no prelude or embellishment, Bahorel informed him, "Grantaire got sick so Enjolras took him home."

"So Operation: You Can't Spell Revolution Without L, O, V, E is really just moot at this point?"

"Courferyac…" Combeferre warned.

"No, I think he's right." Bahorel surprised everyone with this confession. He met their shocked face and admitted, "I think there's a lot more going on between those two than they would have us believe.

"They'll never admit to it," Feuilly said.

"You know what we need, boys?" Courfeyrac turned his gaze to Jehan who looked down at his feet. "Proof."

"Prouvaire?" Feuilly asked. Jehan smiled, slightly embarrassed.

"Yeah…about that…"


End file.
